The Way to Greatness
by MirrorShard
Summary: "I am not afraid of an army of lions led by a sheep, I am afraid of an army of sheep led by a lion."— A rag tag group of students with handy muggle technologies, lots of science fiction inspiration, the dark lord's equal as their leader and no magical education to speak of? Civilizations have been destroyed by less.


**AN [please read, this is important]:** For everyone who hasn't read Better be Gryffindor: There is a prequel to this story. You can find it on my account under Better be Gryffindor but it is **not** necessary to read it to understand The Way to Greatness.

Also for everyone who has read BbG: The story ended on a bittersweet note so the more light-hearted beginning of TWtG may confuse you but please just give it a chance. While I have put this story into the humor genre it is neither a crack!fic nor a parody and the darker, more twisted parts that were slightly foreshadowed in BbG will appear again, just later. For now they are thirteen year old teenagers who have just "defeated" their "enemy" [Wanya, the previous King] and are suddenly living a life without their bully. That doesn't exactly scream tragic, angsting teenagers to me.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series, the characters or the settings.

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**The Way to Greatness**

by MirrorShard

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Older men declare war. But it is the youth that must fight and die.

—Herbert Hoover

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**This is how it starts:**

* * *

Harry is twelve and he's not very happy at all. Of course his state of unhappiness isn't altogether unexpected, given that the summer holidays have started just a few days ago. Now for most children this would be something worth celebrating but for someone like Harry Potter—who definitely isn't _most people_—it is anything but a joyous occasion. In fact there are probably only three people even less happy about his two month long school break than he is and they happen to be the members of the Dursley family.

(A thought that admittedly never fails to lighten Harry's mood—but only a little.)

Sadly for Harry his extended family's discomfort is pretty much the only amusing thing in his life right now. It has become apparent on his first day back from school that—although his uncle Vernon displays an impressive inability of remembering where he puts the money bills his son usually steals and Dudley's capability of counting to ten is still up for debate—his relatives have developed an unexpectedly sharp memory of all his perceived crimes against them.

(Personally, Harry suspects Aunt Petunia's involvement.)

(It goes without saying that said _memory_ operates on a selective basis and does not in any shape or form include an action someone _other_ than Harry might have committed—in fact there seems to be some sort of failsafe that directly reconnects any negative occurrences with Harry's existence whether he has been at all involved in the incident or not. It's a surprisingly fascinating thinking process, really.)

As such not only is Harry unhappy about being stuck at the Dursleys, alone and miserable, he is also unhappy about being watched by his hawk of an aunt and being forced to finish just about any chore his darling family can possibly think of to make up for his delinquent-ish behavior.

(On a brighter side no upstanding, self-respecting Dursley is known for their active imagination or similar nonsense, so they haven't come up with many chores Harry wouldn't have had to do either way, just because he dares to breathe.)

They have for the most part stuck to the routine Harry is already very much familiar with. He has lived with these people for over ten years after all. Some chores like weeding the garden and washing the dishes he has already been doing years before he was even accepted at Hogwarts. Others—for example washing Uncle Vernon's car _daily_ or cleaning out the cellar—are a little more uncommon but still not particularly worrying.

(Although Harry is sure that Dudley's demands to have his room painted in a very light shade of green when his favorite color at the moment is actually black—which means Harry will have to cover the currently blue walls first with white paint and then paint the whole room once again in the actual color—is anything but coincidental. Neither are the two hundred pounds a teary eyed Petunia presents him for 'being interested in the environment'.)

It could probably be worse, Harry admits—if only to himself— because it's not like he has anything better to do with his school-free time. The Dursleys would never tolerate him doing something productive like completing his summer homework or reading ahead of his classes and his friends have a hard time keeping in touch with the way his relatives usually cut him off from the outside world. But even so that doesn't mean Harry has to like slaving off the whole day while his lazy cousin enjoys the nice weather and ruins his work as often as possibly.

Still. For the most part he shrugs his aunt's sharp-tongued comments off and works his daily list down diligently without bothering to complain. After having spent most of his school year under the hateful scrutiny of students and teachers alike one woman's bitter words just don't bother him as much as they used to. It helps that there is no chance of a giant basilisk looming in a dark corner of Privat Drive Number Four, determined to take a bite out of him or his friends. The assurance really does wonders for his nerves.

(Though to be fair there is no telling what _exactly_ has been growing in Dudley's rubbish bin for the past months but whatever it is, Harry swears it has developed a higher IQ than Dudley—which admittedly isn't much of an accomplishment. He names it 'Magic' and hides it under one of the loose floor boards in his room to examine it in more detail at a later date.)

There's also the fact that his quietness and uncomplaining manner seems to freak out his aunt and uncle more and more with every passing day. Harry has almost convinced himself to call them 'Sir' and 'Ma'am' just to see their reactions—_almost_. He's not quite that desperate for entertainment yet.

Which is why when his aunt roughly pushes (read: throws) a book into his arms and snaps at him that he'd better return it to the library a few streets away right about yesterday _or else_ Harry simply takes a look at the cover—it's a book about the stock market that he's pretty sure his uncle threw against the wall (read: Harry's head) a few days ago in frustration (seriously what is it with this family and throwing books anyway?)—nods at the woman to show he is listening and ignores the way her lips pinch together into a thin, white line with practiced ease. She always looks that way when she has to acknowledge his existence.

It's not the first time he's being sent on an errand for his relatives nor is it the first time he has to visit the library, though of course he has never been allowed to check out any books he might actually enjoy. In fact this week alone his aunt has already sent him there three times to get her one book or another (it's usually the wrong one, probably just because Harry is the one who's tasked with delivering it to her) but he truly doesn't mind.

The thing is Harry likes the library. He likes the smell of paper and ink and dusty windows and he especially likes the young attendant, a girl a few years older than him who works there during the summer holidays and always talks with him like he's a normal human being. It's a nice change from the people in Privet Drive.

Today the girl—Janice, he reads on her name tag and wonders why he can't ever seem to remember that name—has bright, blue hair and her nails are painted a blinding shade of neon pink. Her smile when she recognizes him though is even brighter.

"Hi there, kid" Janice grins and takes the economy book from him without question. All of the workers here are used to seeing him around, always choosing books that seem way above what a boy his age usually reads. They've stopped commenting on his choices for a while now, though Janice occasionally jokes about him being some kind of child protégé and shooting him strange gazes when he fails to suppress a disbelieving snort.

"Hello Miss Janice" Harry smiles at the way the girl grimaces at her title but she's constantly teasing him about his unruly hair and too big clothes so he figures it's only fair.

"I told you not to call me that, kid" Janice rolls her eyes exaggeratedly. "I'm not even that much older than you. Anything else you need?" She's comparing the return date stamped inside the book with the actual date like she always does although they both know that he has never brought a book back too late (his aunt would _murder_ him) but it's part of her job and Harry can't begrudge her for that. Besides he's still sort of expecting Petunia to purposefully 'forget' to return a book on time just to get him in trouble.

So while Janice is busy cursing her idiot coworker not so quietly under her breath as she fumbles for the correct stamp to confirm the return date Harry entertains himself with the various trinkets spread out all over the front desk. There are what he guesses to be small souvenirs from different countries like a mini Eiffel Tower, curiously formed seashells, a couple of key chains and a small desk calendar with a new witty quote for every day.

Harry likes pondering those quotes, trying to understand what they are really saying, trying to grasp the deep meaning hidden behind the simple words. It's one of his favorite games when his relatives lock him back into his room and there is nothing left to do expect staring blankly at the wall and hoping he is going to fall asleep soon.

But today the quote isn't funny or inspirational. Perhaps it's just not a day for light-headed wisdom and gentle words. Today the quote Harry reads on a small, white patch of paper is none of that, it's—different.

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_Every war when it comes, or before it comes, is represented as the act of self-defense against a homicidal maniac_.

—Georg Orwell

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Harry reads the phrase once, twice and then a third time, imprinting the words into his memory, etching them into the very fabric of his mind. He is not quite sure _why_ those words have such a profound impact on him, why they strike a chord deep within his soul but they _do_. They remind him of his parents proud smiles and warm eyes on the even surface of a magical mirror. They remind him of a professor recoiling from his touch, burning under his hands, the air filled with shrieks of pain and terror. They remind him of the haunted expression a gentle half-giant has worn, once upon a time when he was forced to speak of a name the world wishes to be forgotten.

Homicidal maniac. Harry doesn't think anyone has ever dared to call the Dark Lord Voldemort those precise words and yet the grotesque imitation of a human face is the first person he associates with them. Almost like they have been created specially with Voldemort in mind, a term so closely entwined with the stuttered _You-Know-Who_'s nobody even bothers to name it anymore. A truth left unsaid yet always there, somewhere, in the far back of the people's mind. Like a soft whisper in the wind.

It startles Harry just how true the quote rings within his ears. Nobody has ever taken the time to sit down with him and explain the way the world was back in the late nineteen seventies. The way the war was. He suspects it's partly because he's _just a child_ and partly because they—the adults—don't actually want to talk about it. Don't want to remember perhaps. It's not like when they talked about the Second World War back in primary school. It's not _millions of jews died during the holocaust_ or _Adolf Hitler became Chancellor of Germany in 1933_ or even _it was a global war that lasted from 1939 to 1945_.

No.

From the moment he has first reentered the magic world about two years ago it has always been _those were dark times _and _people were afraid_ and _they still_ _are_. And perhaps it's that last one that makes Harry realize that the wizards and witches he has met—the adults—don't treat the war against Voldemort as a historic event, a history, a _past_. They don't talk in facts and statistics and clinical doctor voices. Not the way he has seen the muggles do.

Instead they talk in fairytales and bedtime stories, in Boys-Who-Lived and The Rise and Fall of the Dark. They talk pretty pictures and great heroes and evil villains, like maybe magic can't be told in numbers and observations and science but in fantasy and endless _it just is _justifications.

And perhaps the difference is just the time—the distance—people have had to recover from either war but it's been twelve years by now and a small part of Harry—bitter like dark chocolate—can't help but silently ask how much more time they really need. If they honestly believe that a nice story about a dark lord defeated by an innocent baby is going to heal the wounds of lost loved ones, dull the memories of spilled blood.

But in the end Harry shrugs those thoughts off like he always does and instead focuses on the fact that even though they don't know it the wizards might actually be right. After all how can a war be over when the leader of the revolution is still alive and out there somewhere, when his support base has never been effectively destroyed? Harry has _seen_ Voldemort. He knows better than most that the creature is still out there somewhere and it makes another part of the quote stand out in a terrible, damning way.

_Before it comes_.

It shouldn't sound like a bad omen but in Harry's ears it certainly does.

"Well, all seems to be in order with this one. You need something else, kid?" Janice' voice pulls Harry from his thoughts and as his gaze snaps back to the friendly, twinkling blue eyes of the young girl he makes a decision.

"I need some books about war" Harry says without thinking, without knowing what he is even looking for.

"A specific war or just general information?" Janice doesn't even bat an eyelash at his strange request. She's used to them.

He pauses a moment to consider. "General information, please."

"Sure thing, kid" she nods. "You should try the history section, they have some pretty good general overviews about the more famous wars. Oh, and take a look at some of the more theoretical books if you are into that sort of thing. My prof swears on The Art of War by Sun Tzu but you might be a bit young for that one."

Expertly ignoring the jab at his age Harry sends the girl a brilliant smile and turns around, now definitely determined to get his hands on that stupid book and already making plans on how to hide it from his relatives, his far too noisy aunt in particular. After weeks of needlessly waisting time and having nothing substantial to do he might have finally found a way to keep himself busy. For Harry it feels fresh, almost like a beginning.

For the wizarding world it might just be the end.

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**fin**

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I hope you enjoy my new take on the The Way to Greatness universe! Comments, helpful critic or suggestions are always welcome.

Enjoy your weekend, everybody.

Love, Mirre

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Preview for the next update: _Returning for his third year at Hogwarts Seamus knows one thing for sure: they haven't gotten those bothersome older Gryffindors off their collective back only to replace them with those freakishly looming dementors. Luckily he has a plan. (Hint: it _doesn't _involve the equality union Hermione plans on founding.)_


End file.
